Dream Talk
by mholub00
Summary: Night has fallen on a hotel in a foreign country and Clint Barton is as wide awake as ever, whispering to his sleeping partner. He hasn't known her very long, but that doesn't stop him from talking. (One-shot)


**A/N: Alright, so before there is any confusion- yes, I have previously this story. But there was an accident in which I uploaded the wrong text and some other stuff happened, so to fix it all, I am simply reposting it. Hope that makes sense…**

**And, as this is my first official Author's Note, I would like to thank everyone who has read any of my other stories and thank everyone especially who has left a review. Reviews certainly mean a lot to me, so thanks!**

**Enjoy!**

It is dark in the hotel room, lights from the surrounding city blocked out by thick curtains. Quiet breathing fills the space, emanating mostly from the bed on the left. Clint Barton looks briefly at the dark outline of his sleeping partner before turning his attention back to the ceiling. The fly he's been watching for the last hour continues crawling in circles.

The hour is long past any reasonable time, though the clock lies in pieces on the floor, having been a victim of Natasha's nightmare. He had woken up to her muttering and, upon attempting to shake her from her dream, the clock had been thrown at his head. She had fallen quickly back into a restless sleep, shrugging him off like she tended to do, and he had resorted to staring at the cracked paint job above him, his mind racing too much to follow her lead.

"Natasha, are you awake?" Clint whispers into the dark, hoping for a reply but receiving none. He sighs. "Today is the anniversary of the day we met."

The memory surfaces easily, as if it had been there all along, just waiting. He remembers sitting in the corner of the apartment she was using as a safe house, waiting for her to arrive, his bow laying across his lap and a hand gun cocked and ready.

"I don't know if you remember that. It was before you were cleared from the Reds," he notes, never having been quite sure how much they had to wipe from her mind in the weeks following her arrival at SHIELD. The days spent observing the video feed with Director Fury all blend together before the one he intervened on. "I was supposed to kill you."

He rolls over so he's looking at her back. "There was something about you that kept me from doing it, as I sat day after day on various rooftops of the city. You just looked so…robotic. Like every move was predetermined and mechanical. So I got closer, which is always a bad idea for a sniper. The eye sees too much."

"Do you remember being a robot? Did you ever look at yourself in the mirror and feel just plain unhappy but knowing there was not another option?"

"Even now, I see your eyes the most clearly. It was that fourth day, and I was sitting on a bench across the street, watching you order a cappuccino from the waitress. Every 52 seconds, you swept the surrounding area. And I watched your eyes. They scared me, how empty they were, like those of the dead men. It wasn't just that you were hiding behind walls; that's what your eyes look like now. They literally had nothing in them, and the green seemed to be a figment of my imagination."

The fly on the ceiling lets out a long buzz as it runs into the wall, catching his attention enough to tug him from the memory. Clint pulls the sheets back with a sigh and slides from the bed, walking to the window and pushing away the curtain just enough. The moon is high above the city, nearly full. A moan issues from behind him, followed by a string of Russian. He turns to look at Natasha, a smile twitching on his lips. The strip of moonlight falls across her face and the spark of red from her hair now visible is enough color to throw the darkness from the whole room.

He chuckles to himself. "I never would have noticed your eyes if you weren't so goddamn beautiful."

Clint continues staring out the window. It's warm this time of year in Prague. People the size of ants move drunkenly across the streets. Faint shouting floats up to his ears, though about what he can't make out. The silence stays as he listens to her toss and turn and mumble before continuing to speak.

"I was a robot too, you know, before I met you. I think it was in the cell, the day I sat with you in that room with those white walls fading to that white ceiling. And the girl sitting there in the corner wasn't the same one I brought back with me, stubborn and very much her namesake, but I knew it wasn't a mask this time. Your eyes were finally real, and you were afraid. And that's when I realized that I could help. I could become something more than destruction and chaos, orders and the space just ahead."

"Sometimes people do stupid things for a reason, and they turn out good. That's what Coulson told me when I brought you back."

He drops the curtain and slides down the wall at the side of her bed. He grabs her hand, running his thumb over her sliced up knuckles, and she immediately relaxes. This is a technique he finds that calms her down without the side effects of waking her up. "You are my first partner. The first time Fury ever said I had to work _with_ someone. And I don't mind it. Your fun sometimes and teasing you over the comm unit is a good way to pass the time. One day you'll know everything I do about bad movies and good movies and songs and books just from the games we play. And now I see your eyes and I don't worry so much. It's more comforting, being able to walk into work, with all those people who stare and judge because they think they know me, and recognize someone who will do neither."

"But I wish you trusted me more. Maybe you will eventually, you'll let me in. That could make this easier, you know. I know you're scared of trust, but you don't have to be. It's not all that bad. I promised I wouldn't let them hurt you, and I'm going to keep that promise."

Natasha Romanoff wakes in the dark though it's early morning, praising that the curtains actually worked as she can see the sunlight trying to force its way inside. She wonders briefly why they had no alarm set, until the memory of having to apologize to Clint for throwing it at his head comes back. Her hand is wrapped in someone else's and she looks over the side of the bed to see her partner asleep on the floor.

His voice echoes in her mind, words about robots and trust and her eyes and a promise he was going to keep. He'd talked for a while. Remembering his words causes a rare smile to appear on her face.

No weapons checks, no extraction location requesting. And for the first time, she realizes she does trust him. Forcing herself to relax, she closes her eyes once more and lets a light sleep take her away.

Her hand remains wrapped in his.


End file.
